Sir Apropos Of Nothing Part 6

Resentment can be a powerful motivation if properly utilized.

It was from that point on that my resentment for Tacit grew with each pa.s.sing day. I hid it effortlessly, however. As far as he was concerned, we remained bosom friends. Indeed, he perceived a marked change in my att.i.tude and actions from that day forward. I was far more aggressive than I had been, more eager to partic.i.p.ate in various ventures. Whereas before Tacit had to offer me a share of whatever money we took in, in short order I was more than happy to take whatever he felt was due me. I was always quick to bring it home and stash it away in the corner of the stables that I had staked out for my own. I had gotten my hands on a small strongbox, and managed to loosen a few boards in the floor so that I could secret it away. No one knew of its existence, not even my mother. Every so often I would take it out simply to let the coins run through my fingers and clink into the box. I felt as if I was building toward something. I just wasn't entirely yet sure what that might be (although every so often Madelyne would mutter something about "destiny" again).

Sometimes I found myself thinking about Sharee. I wasn't quite sure why I did, but Tacit could somehow always tell when she was in my thoughts. He would kiddingly, but firmly, whack me upside the head and say, "You're thinking about her again. Stop it."

"She was rather attractive," I'd say, or something to that effect.

"She's a weaver. To rescue one is not a bad thing. Weavers are favored by karmic forces and such endeavors as the saving of a weaver's life can rebound to one's benefit at the most unexpected times. But they are not like you and I, Po. They have their own concerns and priorities, their own world, and we merely stand on the outside of that world looking in. You do not want to go too close, I a.s.sure you, and you certainly do not want to open yourself up emotionally. That way lies disaster."

"I know, I know," I'd say, and I'd manage to put her out of my mind for a good long time, but every so often she would creep back in with the stealth of an invisible cat, and we'd have the same conversation again.

As for Madelyne, she continued to ply her trade. But such a life takes a fast toll on a woman. It is easy to be a remote, untouchable beauty and stay that way for many, many years. And if a stunning tapestry is hung upon a wall, it remains unsullied and a work of art. However, if one drapes it across the floor of a pub and all manner of men tread upon it with their heavy boots, it's going to be worn rather thin, and rather quickly. Such was the case with my mother. The wrinkles in her face deepened, her body sagged from the constant wear. The spark in her eyes became dimmer and dimmer through the pa.s.sing years as she became resigned to her rather pathetic status in life. Men were not quite as quick to seek her out, as she became less pleasing to the eye.

My feelings toward her remained mixed. She was, first and foremost, my mother, the one who had borne me, protected me in infancy when others would have just as soon left me to die. I suspect that many other mothers would willingly have left me to my fate. Not her, because she believed that my fate was one of great importance. On the other hand, it is difficult to maintain respect for one who may be utterly deluded. She was, in the final a.n.a.lysis, a harmless enough creature. I suppose I should even have been flattered that her dreams for my future were the way that she defended herself against encroachment of unfortunate reality into her own life.

As for me, I worked on my own means of defense.

Tacit was a formidable fighter. I personally had little patience for fights. If I could walk away, run away, or in some other manner simply keep clear of them, then that would have suited me just fine. However, I was quite aware that sometimes combat was unavoidable. Indeed, my first encounter with Tacit had been a consequence of one of those instances. On that occasion, Tacit had been there to prevent me from being smashed into a meat sack of shattered bones. But I couldn't count on him always being there; my natural and burgeoning cynicism prompted me not to count on anyone for anything.

So it seemed inc.u.mbent upon me to find ways of defending myself, which was no easy task considering my lameness of leg. Tacit, however, was happy to aid me in my endeavors. The key lay in my staff, which served as a walking aid, but also could be utilized as both an offensive and defensive weapon. Tacit worked with me every day, running me through exercises that were designed to accommodate my natural handicaps. When there was any surface available for me to lean against, be it building, tree, or whatever, I would brace myself against it and wield the staff in a manner similar to that of a windmill. As I became defter and more dexterous, even Tacit had trouble breaking through the whirling defensive screen I was able to create. Any weapon thrust into the "circle of death" (as Tacit liked to flamboyantly call it) could be broken or, at the very least, knocked out of the grasp of whoever was wielding it. A fist or outthrust leg would meet with an even worse fate. During our practice sessions, I nearly broke Tacit's arm on more than one occasion.

I was also capable of s.h.i.+fting from defensive to offensive stance rather quickly. If I had nothing to lean against, I would angle forward on my good leg, allowing it to absorb most of the weight of my body, balancing lightly on the ball of my lame right foot so that I could hop/pivot with facility. I was far from being a formidable fighter, but that wasn't the purpose of the exercise. Tacit felt-and I agreed-that any that looked upon me would consider me easy pickings. If they suddenly found themselves faced with a genuine fight, they might be less inclined to press an attack. That was the theory, in any event.

Plus, Tacit added a few tricks. He retooled the staff so that it could be separated in the middle by a quick twist. This would provide me with a lengthy baton in either hand, giving me more defensive options. And he added a secret compartment in one end in which I could store small objects, which was nicely convenient if I should happen to smash someone on the back of the head and steal their purse.

But the nastiest addition was at the other end of the staff on which he had mounted a headpiece depicting a dragon wrestling a lion. Tacit rigged a devilishly clever spring-loaded blade as the dragon's "tongue," about four inches long, which was triggered by my tapping a hidden b.u.t.ton in the middle grip. It wasn't meant to serve as a subst.i.tute for a sword, but rather to provide a nasty surprise where the circ.u.mstances warranted it.

Madelyne was unaware of the full extent of activities that Tacit and I embarked upon, and naturally I had no interest in filling her in. However, she approved of him nonetheless, considering him a good influence, for she saw that my confidence built as I spent more time with him.

Poor Tacit. How limited he was, I felt. How circ.u.mscribed his idealized world of bravery and daring. Obviously Tacit was not someone who preferred only the purest of morality; he was a cutpurse and a thief, after all. Then again, he had an annoying habit of keeping only the smallest measure of his spoils for himself, preferring to give whatever money he obtained to me, or to the needy . . . in short, to anyone except himself. It was as if he engaged in his activities purely to keep busy. This I also found most annoying. Someone with his talents, I felt, should be endeavoring to get rich or build a base of power for himself. It was a subject I gently broached to him one day.

"Power," Tacit said, shaking his head, "is not something that any truly wise person wants."

"Why is that?" I asked him. It was a warm day and we had both just bathed in a nearby river. We were lying bare-chested on the gra.s.s, letting the sun dry us. I've always had a sketchy concept of my own age, for my mother-in her fairy-tale mentality-felt that I was "ageless" and never wanted to saddle me with anything as mundane as birthdays. If I had to guess, though, I was in my middle-to-late teens by that time.

"Power is a finite resource, Apropos," Tacit said. "Once one person has it, others want to get it. And usually they want to take it away from the one who has it. It's not a game I choose to play. Let the others above me struggle with one another, engage in their contests and wars as they see fit. I would prefer to exist beneath their notice."

"But you could bring yourself up to their level."

He shook his head and smiled. "I am perfectly content to wait for them to come down to mine."

That was when we heard them.

By that point my own woodcraft had improved to the point where I didn't need Tacit to bring my attention to things. Any sort of major disturbance to the relative peace and quiet of the Elderwoods, I could detect almost as quickly as Tacit. "Horses," I said. "Men on horseback." I listened a moment more. "About five, six . . ."

"Ten," Tacit said with confidence, waving for me to follow. "Come on."

The hoofbeats were far in the distance, but approaching quite rapidly. We made our way through the forest with alacrity, or at least as much alacrity as I could muster. There was an area of the Elderwoods where the hills angled upward to form a natural lookout point, and that was where Tacit and I headed. It gave us a valuable vantage point to see what was going on, and what was coming from which direction. However, the area was nicely covered with vegetation, so that anyone looking in our direction would have his vision obscured.

We lay down flat, looking at the oncoming hors.e.m.e.n. Ten, just as Tacit had said. Their horses were magnificent beasts to look at. Their coloration was somewhat amazing: Every single one of them was purest gray, their hides seeming to s.h.i.+mmer into black with every great thrust of their powerful legs. When they moved, they seemed like a ma.s.s of storm clouds coming toward us. That impression was underscored by the fact that the sky truly was darkening up; I suspected that we were in for a storm before too long.

The riders themselves wore garments of different styles, but which featured a color scheme that was uniformly black and white.

It was a most impressive array. All of them had swords dangling from their hips, and a number of them had s.h.i.+elds. The s.h.i.+elds bore a crest that consisted of a globe, with renderings of what appeared to be marching feet encircling them.

At first it seemed that the riders were approaching the Elderwoods, but soon it became readily apparent that they were simply circ.u.mnavigating it. Apparently they had no intention of actually trying to enter the legendary forest. Wherever they were heading, it wasn't here.

Their emblems, their colors, all meant nothing to me. But when I glanced at Tacit, his expression and body language immediately alerted me to the fact that he did, indeed, have some familiarity with these individuals. He didn't appear scared, actually. It took a lot to scare Tacit. But he was obviously concerned.

"Journeymen," he said. When he saw my blank expression, he added, "Meander's people."

"Meander!" The name filled me with that unique combination of interest, awe, and dread that his name usually summoned. "Are you sure? I mean, are you absolutely sure?"

Tacit nodded. In the distance, thunder rumbled as if to underscore a sense of drama.

Meander, the Keepless King. Meander the Vagabond. Meander the Mad. All of these appellations, and more, had been applied to him, and probably none of them truly began to capture the full picture.

Meander had once been a king in a frozen region far to the north, and had come into his t.i.tle with the pa.s.sing of his father, a man named Sentor who was reputed to be relatively wise and fair. Sentor had constructed what was said to be a glorious, sparkling castle that was known far and wide as the Ice Palace. It was his crowning glory, so much so that Sentor abruptly died within days of completing its construction, and thus did Meander find himself king of the Keep of the Frozen North. It was rumored that Meander had done away with his father, but no one had ever been able to verify it.

Once in charge, Meander took himself a princess from a nearby realm . . . the only other one within distance, in fact. She was a lovely young thing named Tia, and despite the arctic aspects of the Keep, it was said that her very presence brought warmth where before there had been none. With the two major frigid realms united through the marriage, matters were quite peaceful, albeit cold, in the frozen north.

One day Meander and Tia embarked on a journey to Tia's home, accompanied by the normal escort of guards. But along the way, a fearsome storm came up that was unlike any that even the longest residents of the Frozen North had ever experienced. The king and queen became separated from their escort, and the escort found itself s...o...b..ind. For a solid day the storm continued, and when it was over, Meander and Tia were nowhere to be found. A search was called off after many days, and for a time there was great mourning within the Keep.

Then, to the astonishment of all, Meander staggered out of the wilderness one day, making it all the way to the Ice Palace before collapsing in a heap. There was no sign of his beloved queen, and the only utterances out of Meander's mouth indicated that Tia was, in fact, dead. It was almost too cruel, the kingdom having to mourn a popular ruler for a second time. As for Meander, frostbite had claimed several of his toes. He fell ill immediately upon returning home, as if the last of his strength had been used up in making it back. For two weeks he s.h.i.+vered, tossed, and turned as the doctors tended to him, and it was unknown for quite some time whether he would live or die. When he finally returned to his court, his outward demeanor was calm, almost supernaturally so. And his next p.r.o.nouncements utterly floored the court.

"We have come to understand the world better," said Meander, or so the story goes. "We have restricted ourselves to the Frozen North, but that is foolishness. There are no borders, no boundaries upon this world save those which we construct for ourselves. But they are artificial, and mean no more to the world's surface than the ill.u.s.trations we call constellations mean to the actual stars. From this place atop the world, we hereby abolish all borders. We will recognize no territories. We will go where we wish, when we wish, as we wish. We will be king of all we survey . . . and we are tired of surveying this frozen wasteland. So we shall survey other climes, other areas, and wherever we are, that is where we will be king until it pleases us to go elsewhere."

"But Your Highness," said one courtier, "what of this magnificent castle?"

"Castles are foolishness," replied Meander. "They provide enemies with somewhere that they can find you and strike at you. They give you something to hold on to that can be taken away from you by others. Ours will be a roving kingdom, a vagabond kingdom. To be satisfied with one place is nonsense. Let the other kings of the world dwell within their fortified walls and believe themselves safe. Castles can be attacked, sacked, siege laid to them. We will be," and he smiled, "we will be like the ocean. Strike at an ocean, and your blow means nothing, for there is nothing there to meet your fist. You cannot imprison or border the ocean. It is endlessly useful, and endlessly powerful."

There was some spirited discussion of the king's new philosophy in the court, but ultimately he was their king. Besides, I expect that he might have hit a bit more resistance if his realm had been in sunnier climes and he was proposing relocation to somewhere in the Frozen North. As it was, no one was tremendously averse to the concept of heading someplace warmer. However, just to make certain that no one had any second thoughts, Meander waited until the entire castle was cleared out of everything easily transportable, and then he destroyed it. The Frozen North is, so I hear, a remarkably quiet land, snow falling there with an eerie hush. It is said that the crash made by the Ice Palace when it collapsed reverberated for days across the perpetual silence of the land, and by the time it finally ceased its echoes, Meander and his people were long gone.

Thus did King Meander consciously choose a life of perpetual wandering. He cared nothing for borders or treaties, and would move across lands with no regard to the sovereigns who were already there. He recognized no rule save his own. At first, various monarchs reacted with fury over Meander's utter lack of respect for their respective authority. One of the first notable skirmishes involved King Verona, who had long ago decreed that no foreign king could set foot in his realm of Upper Montclair without heavy tax or copious offerings. When Meander crossed into his territory and set up his portable realm, Verona sent messengers demanding that Meander pay homage. The messengers never returned. a.s.suming that Meander had slain them, King Verona sent the famed Fifth Regiment against Meander. When the Fifth arrived, they found that not only were the messengers in perfect health, but they had, in fact, switched loyalty to Meander. It was difficult not to. The Fifth discovered that Meander was in the midst of what he referred to as his "movable feast." Paying no attention to the posted signs or warnings, Meander's people had slaughtered some of the succulent game (deer and such) that were maintained purely for the highly refined taste buds of the king and his higher tier of n.o.bles.

Now, the Fifth had two or three n.o.bles in command position, but the majority of the Fifth-as was the case with most regiments-was composed of grunts and ground pounders. Well trained, but grunts just the same, and they were accustomed to being treated as such. It was just the standard pecking order. But Meander, with no regard for such things, treated them as if they were lords themselves. "Sit down at our movable feast, good sirs," Meander welcomed them rather than taking up arms against them. "Enjoy, for once, the best that your land has to offer, instead of those handouts which your lord deigns to give you."

This was met by howls of protest by the n.o.bles, who demanded that the men immediately slaughter everyone in Meander's court and take the king himself prisoner. But they underestimated their own control over their people. It is a simple matter to order men into battle against an opponent who is shouting war cries. But to meet generosity with violence is another matter entirely. Plus it is said that the ladies of Meander's court, now that they were out of the frozen clime, had "thawed" considerably and were most anxious to indulge their newfound warmth with all comers. Between such enticements as food and s.e.x, the hardy men of the Fifth Regiment were happily helpless. The n.o.bles faithful to King Verona bl.u.s.tered and threatened and swore and stamped their feet until the grunts, their bellies full and their palates tingling, got tired of them and put them to the sword. Thus did Meander take the Fifth.

It proved a significant lesson to other monarchs, who realized that they had a serious problem on their hands. From Upper Montclair, he moved through Upper Echelon, and the entire Upper Lumbar region, and none of the kings, liege lords, and others in charge knew what to make of him. He took what he wanted, acquired followers with ease, but showed no interest in the traditional challenging of power or capturing of land that other roaming monarchs so frequently displayed. And heaven help anyone who made a foray against him, because long practice made Meander's court the most mobile and terrain-adaptive of any in the land.

Consequently, when Tacit and I saw a number of his soldiers-known as the Journeymen-pa.s.sing through, we had absolutely no clue how to react. One never knew what one was going to get with Meander or his people, because his followers were a hodgepodge and agglomeration of whomever happened to have joined him at that time. It was said that Meander was sort of a free-floating pocket of chaos. It was said he cared nothing about anyone, as if all his actions subsequent to his wife's death were a means of isolating himself from anyone or anything truly being able to touch him.

It was said that, in truth, he was a madman.

All I knew was that seeing ten of his Journeymen pounding through the area was something that filled me with a vague sense of dread, and I had no real idea why.

"What are we going to do?" I asked.

Tacit looked at me with confusion. " 'Do'? We're not going to do anything. They're not heading into the Elderwoods, which is fine by me. If they did, we'd have a problem on our hands. As it is . . ." He shrugged.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and it began to rain, big fat drops pouring down. We made for the nearest cave and holed up there, trading stories that we'd heard about Meander. Tacit seemed disturbed by him, but the more we spoke of it, the more the entire concept began to intrigue me. "Perhaps I should take up with him," I mused out loud. "Join his ranks."

"What would you want to do a b.l.o.o.d.y stupid thing like that for?" Tacit demanded.

"Maybe it's not so stupid. Maybe Meander is the only one out there who sees things for what they really are."

"Meander is a madman," Tacit said dismissively.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's simply a mad world, and Meander is the only one with clarity of vision."

Tacit leaned forward, drawing his knees up under his chin. "Meander has no sense of justice, or order. He's the incarnation of pure impulse. There's something to be said for spontaneity, granted. But there's also something to be said about knowing where one stands at all times, and you'll never get that with Meander. Not ever."

The rain came down all the harder. We stayed in the cave and spoke of this and that, liberally mixing matters of importance with matters of no consequence at all. The rain formed such a steady beat above our heads that, as day rolled toward evening, slowly I found myself being lulled to sleep.

And I dreamt with a clarity such as I had never known before.

I saw my mother, saw Madelyne, and she was speaking to me as if from very far away. To this day I cannot remember exactly what she said. Certainly her incessant carping about my destiny figured into it. But there was something more, something fearful in her manner. Even in the dream, there was an att.i.tude that came through above all else: She was acting as if this was the last time she was going to be able to speak with me.

She cried out in pain, and when I awoke it was as much to her scream inside my head as it was being startled from my slumber by the roar of thunder.

The abruptness with which I woke startled Tacit awake. "I have to go home," I said, without knowing or understanding why.

"What's wrong?" Tacit asked.

But I didn't wait around to tell him. Instead I bolted from the cave. It was still raining. I didn't care. I was being compelled by something greater than anything that I was able to understand. My lame leg was almost forgotten as I ran through the forest. I knew the path so well that, even in the darkness, even in the rain, I was able to maneuver through the Elderwoods as if it were broad daylight and I were fleet of feet.

He had no idea what was going on, but Tacit nonetheless followed me. I wasn't aware of it at first, because even when he was making no effort to conceal himself, Tacit still moved like a ghost. But a carelessly snapped twig under his foot tipped me that Tacit was behind me. I didn't care. All I knew was that I had to get back to the tavern.

I burst through the door and saw Stroker standing by the fireplace. There were only a handful of regular customers there, and they were cl.u.s.tered together and muttering in low tones. Everyone turned and looked at me, and there was darkness in their eyes that held something ominous within. Even Stroker, who had never given two d.a.m.ns about me, looked as if he was actually, albeit momentarily, concerned.

As if we were already halfway through a conversation, I said, "Where is she?" I must have been quite a sight at that moment, with my hair flattened around me from the rain, my clothes disheveled, tracking in mud from the Elderwoods. But I didn't care about any of that. More alarmingly, neither did Stroker seem to care.

Stroker indicated the back room with a quick tilt of his chin. I headed toward it and threw open the door, to discover Astel sobbing over my mother's corpse.

I stood there for a long moment, the reality now having caught up with my most fevered imaginings. Madelyne's eyes were open, but she was staring at nothing, her soul having departed the body and left the lids up in the way that someone might hurriedly flee a house and leave the door ajar.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, realized it was Tacit's, and pushed it aside. I entered the room and stood over Astel. To my distant surprise, I felt exceptionally calm. "What happened?"

"A . . . a Journeyman," Astel managed to get out. "I . . . there were raised voices. I heard, everyone heard. He wanted her to do things . . . disgusting things . . . she wouldn't have any part of. She was a good and decent wh.o.r.e, and wouldn't have any truck with what that . . . that pig wanted." She accentuated the "p" in "pig" so that she spat upon saying the word. "His friends caroused outside, and he tried to take her here, to do his filthy . . ." Her voice shuddered and she took a moment to compose herself. I didn't rush her. What would have been the point? "We heard furniture being thrown about. And the snap when he broke her neck, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d . . . I heard that, too. We all did."

"His name," I said tonelessly. "Did any of you get his name, so he can be found."

"No. But before she died, she left her mark on him a'right. If you see him, that will help you identify him, sure as I'm breathing."

"Her mark?" Tacit spoke up.

Astel flexed her hand in a clawlike motion and made a sweeping gesture. I understood immediately. Madelyne had always kept her fingernails long and sharp. If she chose to employ them as weapons, I certainly wouldn't have wanted to have the d.a.m.n things raking across my face. And sure enough, I could see traces of blood on the fingernails of her right hand. She'd bloodied her murderer something fierce, that much was certain.

Her murderer . . .

A cold fury was beginning to build in me, as I walked slowly across the dirty room and, pa.s.sing my hand over her face, shut her eyes. Something had to be done about this.

I would like to tell you that I was motivated by a sense of justice, of honor. But these matters were of little relevance to me. I knew that this was an unjust world, and to expect any sort of equity within it was a complete waste of time.

But . . . she was mine. She was my mother. I had, by turns, loved her, pitied her, loathed her. In the final a.n.a.lysis, however, she was the only mother I had, and some brute had come along and taken her from me, had stolen from me. He had taken that which was mine, that which he had no right to take.

I had so little. So little. How dare some thug try and rob me of what little I had.

"Can you describe him beyond the mark?" I asked.

"Tall. A big man . . . at least two heads higher than you. Ma.s.sive built he was, with a scowl dark as thunderclouds and the strength of five men, at least. Maybe ten."

I didn't like the sound of that.

"Tell me you'll find him . . . find him and kill him for what he did," Astel continued with bubbling ire. "Tell me you will."

"I'll do better," I said. "I'll find his his mother . . . and kill mother . . . and kill her her."

"Wait a minute," Tacit said immediately and even Astel seemed taken aback. "You can't do that," continued Tacit.

"The h.e.l.l I can't. Watch me."

"Kill some woman you don't even know!"

"He did!" I pointed out, indicating my mother's body.

"But that's not the point! If you were going to try and kill him, that'd be one thing-"

"It certainly would. It would be suicide. You heard her description of him. He'd annihilate me."

"Po," Tacit said slowly, "you can't do it. You can't just kill an innocent woman because of something her son did."

"Well, I have to do something!"

"Not you. We. We have to do it. We will find him . . . we will find the man who did this . . . and we will exact vengeance on your mother's behalf."

"Why?" I stared at him incredulously. "Why 'we'? Why are you mixing into this? This isn't your concern."

"Of course it's my concern. You're my friend!"

I looked at the dead body of my mother, which Astel was just in the process of covering with a sheet. "Why do you have to do that?" I muttered.

"Do what? What do you mean?"

Thunder cracked overhead, and something about the sound of the heavens, combined with something in Tacit's voice-such a matter-of-fact, "how-could-you-even-ask" att.i.tude-pushed me over an edge that I didn't even realize I was standing near.